Scoop
by MrsTater
Summary: Is Carson right to fear the press?


_**A/N: I know I have a goal of completing **_**Something Worth Having**_** by the end of the year, but a throwaway line in the 2014 Christmas special inspired me to write this. I'm accepting the mention of "Lord and Lady Carlisle" in the TextSanta sketch (which, if you haven't seen it, is worth a YouTube search) as canon that post-S2 Richard got a peerage and got married. Enjoy!**_

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><p><em>Autumn, 1924<em>

"I'll tell Lord Carlisle, Mr Barton. You can expect to hear from us in due course."

"In time for the evening editions," Mr Barton stipulated in his broad Yorkshire accent.

"As I said: in due course."

Harriet Fields replaced the telephone handset firmly on the base. For a moment she remained behind her desk, staring at the ruled tablet on which she'd jotted a few notes during the brief, to-the-point phone call from Clarence Barton, a reporter for the _York Daily Record _whose loyalty to the paper which employed himwas outweighed by his loyalty to his pocketbook. _Her _employer bought Barton during his drawn-out engagement to Lady Mary Crawley, to keep him abreast of news about the family that might originate in their part of the country before his rivals in London got hold of it. But that was years ago; Sir Richard was Lord Carlisle now, with a _Lady_ Carlisle who hadn't dithered over his proposal or with providing an heiress to his empire, while Lady Mary was…still Lady Mary Crawley. In more than name only, Harriet thought, swivelling round in her chair to face door to the publisher's office.

She removed her wire-frame spectacles, raised her other hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. _In due course _played over in her head like a stuck record, her own precise diction a contrast to Barton's regional pronunciation. She'd sounded like him, once, and while she'd never been ashamed of where she came from-a trait shared with Lord Carlisle-she'd quickly learnt, as he had, that conformity to some standards brought freedom where it really counted. And unlike the reporter, she would never bite the hand that fed her.

Which was why she hesitated to rise from her chair and knock on the door.

Lady Carlisle had popped in for a visit, along with little Charlotte-Charlie, as she was more frequently called-and they'd ordered luncheon brought in. Through the panelled oak drifted the muffled sounds of laughter and the clink of silverware and the clatter of typewriter keys as Charlie played on his father's machine. _My bonnie princess_, she'd heard Lord Carlisle call his daughter on more than one occasion, lapsing into a Scots brogue as easily as one would a favourite old pair of slippers. It hardly seemed correct to interrupt this pleasant moment with a reminder of a decidedly _un_pleasant past.

With a shake of her head, Harriet stood, took up her notebook. Lord Carlisle was a modern man. He looked forward, not back, condemning Lady Mary's ilk for dwelling in a bygone era. If his purchase of Haxby Park for her had been one errant moment of romanticism, he'd rectified it when the papers declared, the very evening her engagement to Mr Crawley had been announced, that he'd sold the place for a handsome profit to a Hollywood producer. The only person looking to the past now was Harriet herself, recalling the months, _years _of short-fused Monday mornings following weekends spent at Downton Abbey. The best remedy for that was to pass along Barton's scoop and enjoy hearing Lord Carlisle say that Lady Mary of the Perpetual Scandal could take responsibility for her own reputation, and her family's, for once. After all, hadn't her husband left her half the estate? That was the gossip a few years back, anyway.

At her knock, she heard Charlotte's voice, muffled by the heavy oak: "I get da door!" followed by the father's deeper tones bidding his secretary to enter. Harriet pulled the door open slowly, careful of the little blonde girl who peeked around it with solemn blue eyes-her father, in miniature. "I working."

"I see that, Miss Carlisle," Harriet replied, eyes raking over the typewriter which lay abandoned in the middle of the floor, keys stuck and paper jammed. "How busy you are. Writing impassioned editorials?"

"Oh yes!" replied Charlotte, and as she plopped down in a flounce of ruffled blue dress, Harriet turned her attention to the parents. Lord Carlisle sat at the edge of his desk, an empty plate resting casually on his knee; his wife sat in one of the green upholstered chairs facing the desk, but turned now to look at Harriet.

"My apologies for interrupting your luncheon."

"Not to worry, Miss Fields," replied Lady Carlisle, her voice tinged with genteel Glasgow. "We heard the phone and knew your coming was imminent."

Harriet looked to Lord Carlisle. "It was Clarence Barton."

The name hadn't been mentioned in the office in years, yet Harriet saw the change it evoked in Lord Carlisle's demeanour as readily as it ever had: a tightening of his jaw, a sharpening of the angles of his shoulders. His wife, getting up and slipping her handbag over shoulder, did not appear to notice. She had a meeting of her own to attend-she was political, Lady Carlisle, from a family of politicians-and Charlotte had to go home for her nap. She slapped the typewriter keys in protest at this-no doubt destined to be political, too-which earned her a gentle admonishment from her father about the proper treatment of office equipment, along with a kiss as he scooped her up in his arms.

As Lord Carlisle saw his family out, Harriet turned her attention to replacing the typewriter on its desk and un-jamming the keys. When he shut the office door behind them, the only indication that his mood had been altered from enjoying wife and daughter was that he immediately reached into his jacket pocket for a cigar.

"So…" He struck a match, lit the cigar, and flicked the match into the waste bin as he prowled around his desk. Harriet took her customary position standing front of it as he lowered himself into his chair. "Clarence Barton," he said with an exhale of smoke. "It's been a few years. Still with the _Record_?"

"He says Lady Mary Crawley was seen at the York Prison."

Lord Carlisle smirked around his cigar. "What, did she finally murder her sister Edith?"

Harriet ducked her head, ostensibly to look at her notes, but in fact to school her own urge to grin into submission. He might be frank with her, but it was not her place to offer any opinion about his former fiancé or her family.

"The person Lady Mary was visiting is, in fact, accused of murder."

"And who might that be?"

"Mrs Anna Bates."

His lack of immediate reply made her look up, to find him wearing one of the most surprised expressions she'd ever seen on his shrewd face. Another draw on the cigar, however, restored him to his customary composure.

"You know I never could see what made Anna so desperate to marry John Bates. Now it would appear they truly are a match made in heaven."

He'd scarcely sat down, but he got up again, pacing to stand in front of the high windows overlooking the rooftops of London, St Paul's dome rising above them all. The glib expression faded from his eyes, his forehead drawing into pensive lines as he puffed on his cigar.

"She can't have done it, of course," he went on. "I have first-hand experience with Anna Bates' scruples."

Although Lord Carlisle spoke at a conversational volume, gesturing with his cigar, Harriet felt as if he were talking more to himself than to her. Nevertheless, he piqued her curiosity. What sort of interactions had he occasioned to have with a maid at Downton Abbey? Was it her imagination, or did he recall them with regret?

Of course she didn't utter these questions aloud, though Lord Carlisle had more of his own for her.

"Who is she meant to have murdered?"

Harriet perused her notes again, though she had full recall of the particulars. "Alex Green, valet to the Viscount Gillingham. _Former_ valet, that is. It seems he was given the sack the day before he was pushed in front of a bus in Piccadilly. Before that he…assaulted…Mrs Bates during a visit to Downton."

Sordid news of rape and murder crossed Lord Carlisle's desk on a daily basis, so it was hardly shocking to his sensibilities. Yet he stopped pacing, smoked intently. The story held emotional resonance for him or, at the very least, a personal connection.

Clearing his throat, he said, "Once again the Crawleys are embroiled in a hideous scandal, and Barton's first thought is to sell it to me? Did he miss the part where I didn't actually marry into that family? Thank God. They'd give royalty a run for their money when it comes to drama. A dream come true, for the press. A nightmare for any man wishing for sane in-laws."

The words were those of a man for whom the past was strictly the past, but as he stared out the window, head bent to look down on Fleet Street, smoking, his free hand slipping into his trouser pocket, Harried feared that wasn't quite the case. This was the same man who, after Lady Mary jilted him, continued to keep _Mr _Bates' murder trial out of the papers, though he got no benefit from protecting the family. On the contrary, news of the Earl of Grantham's scandalous household would have made the publisher's break from it understandable, advisable, even, given his own ambitions to rise higher through the ranks of society. Still, she held out hope.

"Shall I ring Mr Barton back and tell him he's got a scoop for the evening editions?"

"Ring him back," Lord Carlisle said, not turning to face her, wreathed in smoke, "but tell him the usual terms will apply. You'll wire the funds and send the contracts express."

Harriet pressed her lips together; the bridge of her nose ached beneath her spectacles. "Very good, Lord Carlisle."

She retreated toward her reception room to carry out her assignment, but as she reached for the doorknob the rasp of his voice made her pause.

"Do you think so, Miss Fields?"

"Sir?"

"That it's very good."

Clutching her notebook to her chest, she faced him. Richard Carlisle wanted her honest opinion-to a degree.

"I think you're a good man."

This seemed to amuse him. "I wasn't asking your opinion of my character-not to say yours isn't one of the few that matters to me-but rather of my decisions. You don't think I'm making a good one at the moment. Don't deny it, Miss Fields. You may be tight-lipped, but I read your thoughts in your eyes. Those well-polished spectacles hide nothing."

"Your character informs your decisions," Harriet replied. "Mrs Bates faces enough stigma and shame without her misfortune making headlines."

Lord Carlisle nodded, but glanced away as he said, "Of course there's a limit to how much protection even I can provide her if she's not acquitted. A woman killing her rapist is more salacious than Bates' murder trial. I'd never be able to buy them all off."

"Quite. Still, you've done her a kindness."

"As has Lady Mary."

There it was. Harriet had known all along, of course, that he was doing this all-or mostly-for Lady Mary, and Lord Carlisle knew that she knew.

What Harriet wanted to know was _why_. He'd moved on: he'd got his peerage, a wife he loved and a child he adored. What had he to regret?

"I can hardly punish her for being kind, Miss Fields."

Drawing up her shoulders, Harriet replied, "And I can hardly criticise you for making amends for past wrongs." Whatever they were.

Lord Carlisle put his cigar once more to his lips. As he exhaled the smoke, the _o _of his mouth relaxed into a grin.

"Don't think _too _highly of my character. I won't deny there's a not insignificant part of me that hopes there are a few residents of Downton Abbey losing sleep to the fear that the press will find out Lady Mary's been seen in a gaol."


End file.
